Light at the End of the Tunnel
by eleanoralovesananias
Summary: Death is an everyday occurrence for nations, like getting a cold or twisting an ankle. But the roll-call is starting, and one particular nation is right at the head of it.


**I know, I know, I should be updating my other stories. But this just begged to be written, so here it is. It's a oneshot, and will remain so - I promise.**

~~~this is the beginning of the story~~~

France helped America onto the couch. The teenager smiled weakly up at his adopted uncle. "Guess Iggy had some scones to burn, huh?"

France's expression softened. "Your father will be here very soon. He's on a plane right now." The Frenchman chuckled. "You should have heard the _rosbif_ over the phone. He was in pieces." America smiled again, still weakly, and France became concerned. The American had always been truly resilient; he should have been grinning like a maniac and chattering away by now. "Are you all right, _mon chere?_ You do not seem yourself."

The blue-eyed teenager looked up, light glinting off his glasses. "I got hit by a car, dude."

France had to admit that was a good reason to be a little shaken. But still, the older nation couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Hit by a car, yes; dead for a few hours, yes, but it was concerning that America of all people wasn't laughing it off. It suddenly occurred to him that the teenage nation hadn't eaten since he left the hospital, either. France narrowed his eyes, trying to look past America's glasses. It took him a second to place the problem. Then he understood. The blonde nation sighed, pushing a wavy lock behind his left ear. "You are altogether too much like your father, _Amerique._"

The young nation fiddled with his thumbs, not even coming back with a joke. His usual confidence seemed to have deserted him, and as he bit his lip silently, he could easily have been mistaken for his twin Canada. France's unease grew. It was quite unlike America to keep his problems to himself or bottle up his emotions; that was more England's style. The Gallic nation watched him for a second, then decided on a straightforward tack. Unlike England, who would just pull further into himself until tricked or forced out, America would likely appreciate being honestly confronted.

America looked up as his uncle put a hand on his knee. France's blue eyes confronted him. "What is bothering you, _mon petit_?" the older nation asked gently. "You can tell me."

The teenager's lips trembled. "You-you've died before, right?"

"Of course," replied France, watching the younger nation with sympathy and concern. Perhaps he was simply traumatized by the experience of death. But something told him there was more to this. America had been fatally wounded plenty of times, after all. "I do not know a nation who hasn't, at some point or another."

America swallowed, tears prickling his eyelashes. "Do you... do you ever dream?"

France frowned. "Dream?"

"When you're dead. Do you ever dream?"

The older nation leaned forward, now sincerely worried. "Dream of what, _mon cher_?"

America's blue eyes were full of tears. "Of a light at the end of the tunnel."

France sat back in disbelief. "_Amerique,_ are you telling me you experienced... beyond this world?"

America nodded, slowly. He was shaking. Tears rolled down his suddenly pale cheeks. "I don't know how to stop it!" he whimpered. France reached out and gathered the sobbing America into his arms, rocking him back and forth like he used to rock England when he was little.

Finally America drew in a breath and pulled away. He took a few deep breaths, took off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. Then the teenager looked back at France, his eyes tired and despairing. "The thing is," he continued quietly, "every time I die, I get closer." He blinked a few times. "The tunnel is only so long, and every time I die, I get closer to the light." The young nation stared down. When he spoke again, it was in an unbelieving whisper. "I only have so many lives left."

France stared at the young nation, seriously concerned for his sanity. How had the American ever gotten it into his head that this was possible? _Stupid rosbif, _he thought angrily. _Filling the poor boy's head with your stories._

Just then a door slammed open. England flew into the room, eyebrows unkempt and hair worse. "Where is he?!" the Brit half-screamed.

France rose, hands on hips. The blonde nation was just about to give England a lecture he would never forget, when America pulled on his cloak. The young country shook his head. _Don't tell him._

France relented. "Come on in, _rosbif." _England looked distinctly surprised. It had been a long while since France had addressed him as anything other than 'Angleterre', or occasionally Arthur. What had happened to make him drop his usual mask of passive-aggressive flirtatiousness?

England shook it off, France said nothing, and America smiled. They knew nothing about what was coming, or how America's premonitions would affect them, soon and though years of grief.

~~~this is the end of the story~~~

**Okay, _maybe _a two-shot. But I'm not going to continue it until I finish The Awesomeness of Revenge, Hiraeth, True White Brother, _and _The Wolf and the Eye. Okay? Good.**


End file.
